


Changes

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Johnlock, Domesticity, Fluff, Happy, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, New Relationship, Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sherlock Loves John, also some porn, bit of angst, just a teensy bit of angst, nothing to separate them, sherlock gets a bit injured, sherlock is so fucking lazy, they're happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John really doesn't notice how much has changed since he and Sherlock became...whatever it is they are now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly just wanted to write some domestic things. And John in the tub.
> 
> With a side of porn.
> 
> Not beta'd, and not Brit-picked, because I'm a lazy piece of shit. Just like Sherlock.
> 
> If you so desire (SHAMELESS PLUG), my tumblr is [Whimsical Ethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/).

Really, nothing has changed. At all. Well, the first four and a half days after _This_ was actualized (or rather, _Them_ because it’s not like it’s anything but what they were always supposed to be anyway) were quite different. John had never had so much sex in his life, both their appetites for each other’s touch completely insatiable after five years of what each had assumed was unrequited. John had also never shed so many tears, wrapped around a long, thin body that was shockingly warm and pliant.

Sherlock was different those four days, so open and welcoming of John’s ministrations, so desperate for his words of praise and love that it broke John’s heart to think he’d gone five years without ever seeing it was there.

And the words he said to John, awkward and stuttering but so simple and heartfelt that John thought he could die happy then and there.

It was wonderful and painful and it makes John’s heart ache and gut clench every time he remembers it, which is quite often. Those four days were nothing like what their life was, and John had been a little scared that what was so wonderful about them was going to completely change.

Then Greg texted Sherlock—a murder-suicide in which two bodies had absolutely no marks on them—and Sherlock looked at John with that familiar mad excitement in his eyes and they were off, just the two of them against the world.

Everything rather went back to normal after that, save for the fact that John now slept curled around Sherlock whenever Sherlock deemed it worthy to actually go to bed. During the day, everything was pretty much the way it’d always been. They really don’t discuss it; it’s simply another part of their lives now. And John is quite happy.

He hears a bang and a curse, or rather what amounts to cursing in Sherlock’s mind ( _“Pedestrian and childish, John. Vulgarity is so banal.”)_ coming from the kitchen. John smiles and shakes his head as he takes a sip of his tea. Typical Sunday. He’d missed this so much, before, then when he was living with Mary. He missed their life and is glad to be back.

******

Two hours and three meta-analyses (trauma triage, treatment of invasive Aspergillosis in immunocompromised hosts, and yet _another_ review of the safety of MMR), an odd smell is emanating from kitchen, not unlike burned hair.

“Rubbish!” Glass clatters as Sherlock slaps his palms down on the kitchen table. “Absolute rubbish! Stupid. _Stupid_!” His chair clatters against the linoleum and John knows he’s shoving himself up from the table in frustration. Sherlock stomps across the kitchen into the sitting room, his bare sleep slapping against the floor.

John looks up as Sherlock stops in front of his chair. He’s (barely) dressed in old worn pajamas, the worn cotton hanging loosely off his thin frame. His safety googles are pushed up on his head, unruly curls rumpled and comically sticking in every different direction. His lips are deeply downturned, brows knit. It’s hilarious and adorable, and John just manages to suppress a smile; an epic sulk is coming.

“Not what you expected, darling?”

Sherlock’s nose crinkles for a brief moment, as it always does when John calls him one of the “ridiculous, nauseating (Sherlock’s words)” pet names in his enormous repertoire. (He never actually asked him to stop, though.)

“Obviously, John. Are you being deliberately obtuse, or are you such an idiot you couldn’t tell?”

John rolls his eyes. “What were you trying to do?”

“Doesn’t matter. It didn’t work and now I obviously can’t continue with further observations.”

“You didn’t use the left-over curry, did you? I was going to reheat that for dinner.”

“No.”

“Well, good.” John turns back to his copy of the _BMI._ “You know, you can still write up what you have on the blog. This thing is full of supported null hypotheses. He gestures to the journal is his hand.

“Why bother?”

“Because, my love, ‘negative data’ are not the same as ‘no data.’”

“Nobody will read it.”

“Nobody but me and Molly read it anyway,” John states mildly.

Sherlock glares at John for a brief moment, then rip off his googles and huffs his way over to the sofa. John shrugs to himself and turns back to his journal to let Sherlock sulk. Best to just leave him to it until something else distracts his attention. It won’t be a case; Greg is on holiday and Sally Donovan certainly won’t call unless she’s desperate.

After several silent minutes, huffs and exasperated sighs begin to emanate from the lump of cotton and silk on the sofa. John allows it to continue for a while, until the sounds disintegrate into downright moans. _Drama queen_. A less familiar person would think Sherlock was in physical pain. John sighs and takes his cue.

“What were you trying to see?” He really doesn’t care, so long as Sherlock didn’t destroy any belongings or their dinner in the process, but Sherlock is demanding his attention without actually just asking John for it. They’ve danced this dance a thousand times over the years: Sherlock gets in a strop, John acknowledges his suffering, and then the Great Brain comes up with another (usually disgusting) idea to keep Sherlock occupied.

“The effect of _Stachybotrys chartarum_ on _Drosophila_ ,” the lump mumbles, then rolls onto his back and flexes his toes into the arm of the sofa.

“And?”

“Nothing. _Nothing_ , John. They were all in the container, doing boring fruit fly things,” Sherlock jerks and sits up. “The mechanics satratoxins are straightforward in mammals.” He ruffles his hair.

“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t play with black mold in the flat, Sherlock.”

“Dull.”

“Yes, dull,” John rolls his eyes and tries to start reading again. Sherlock stays blessedly silent and John finds himself engrossed in a case study of child who underwent a peripheral stem cell transplant that was later discovered to be contaminated with slow-growing _Actinomyces_. Then he feels bony fingers grip his forearm and lift.

Sherlock unceremoniously drops into the chair, on top of John. He curls and folds himself impossibly small on John’s lap, his head on the arm of the chair and his bony feet shoved between the upholstery and John’s jeans-clad thigh. He smells like soap and tea and a bit of rubbing alcohol.

“Yes?” John smirks, resting one hand (and the journal) on a bony hip, his other hand on soft, messy curls.

“Bored.” Sherlock grunts.

“Yes, I can see that.” He twines a ringlet around his index finger. “We could watch a movie.”

“Nnnnng…” Sherlock shrugs and makes a noise even John can’t decipher. The he heaves himself up, rolls over (his knee nearly catching John in the crotch) and flops heavily back down.

“Oooph,” John grunts, arms held up and Sherlock wriggles and folds in on himself again. “You know, you’re actually quite heavy. And I’m trying to read.”

“Mmmmmm,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s jumper, his face now buried into his ribs, just under his left arm pit. John can feel long fingers clench at the wool over his belly.

“Alright then,” John sighs affectionately and lowers his arms, flipping the journal open again. Sherlock makes a surprisingly good reading table.

***

“We’ve tracked Augusta to Indonesia. Some of our operatives stationed there recognized her in a market. She was apparently spending quite a bit of money.”

“And they just let her go?” Sherlock sneers across the way at Mycroft, who is twisting the handle of his umbrella in deliberate circles.

“This is delicate, little brother. Acting rashly would jeopardize everything. I had been hoping you would have realized that by now.” When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Mycroft sighs. “Please understand I want to apprehend her just as much as you do.”

“Not possible.” Sherlock snaps, his fingers steepled under his chin.

Mycroft glances to where John is sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. John is always relegated to the sofa when Mycroft visits, and despite the (immeasurable) gratitude he feels towards him since watching Sherlock’s plane turn around seven months ago, he still hates it. Mycroft consistently makes him feel like an unwelcome guest in his own home. And it puts Sherlock in a strop that can last for days.

Same as ever.

The displeased grimace on his face when he glances at John matches the one he had when he walked into their flat six and a half months ago, sniffing with distaste. Mycroft had realized immediately when their relationship took a turn, and even the only real change was that now they rub their genitals together, he’d been quite adamant that it wasn’t a good idea. _“This is not a good idea. It will further complicate an already well-compromised situation.”_

“Sherlock—”

“She’s dangerous, Mycroft,” John interjects from his Seat of Mycroft Banishment on the sofa. “She’s already shot Sherlock once, tried to shoot me once she realized what was going on. There is no way she’s just let that go. The longer Mary—Augusta—is out there—”

“I am well aware, Dr. Watson, of the nature of the situation. Far more than either of you, actually. For once,” he sneers, “would you two please trust that I understand what I’m doing?”

“For how long?”

“Until I say.” Mycroft purses his lips and stands. “I will let you know when I have more information. And I can see your brain grinding, Sherlock. Don’t make me put a moratorium on your passport.”

“You can’t.”

“I most certainly can. I will update when I can. Good-bye, brother mine. Dr. Watson,” Mycroft turns and nods, almost courteously, then walks out the door and heavily down the stairs.

John sighs and stands to close the door to the flat before walking over to Sherlock’s chair. He’s pulled his knees up, hugging them to his chest, glaring at John’s empty chair with a look that might actually light it on fire.

“We don’t have much of a choice, love,” John comes to stand behind his chair, leaning and resting his hands on the back of it.

“I hate it.” Sherlock mumbles into his knees.

“I know. I do too.”

“I want her dead, John.”

John doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say. She has tried to kill them both, very nearly succeeding with Sherlock. John knows she wants them both dead, and he came realize that week after Sherlock escaped his exile that she won’t be quick about it. She’d told Sherlock when he found them that she hadn’t yet decided which she wanted to see more: to make Sherlock watch John die, or for John to watch Sherlock die. John’s already had to do that, and the thought of Sherlock experiencing that kind of pain makes him physically ill.

John wants her dead, too.

He feels warm fingers reach around his left hand where it’s resting on the back of Sherlock’s chair. He pulls it under his chin, twining their fingers together. John stays where he is and lets Sherlock grasp his hand under his chin, squeezing every few minutes.

***

John loves baths. He has for a long while, despite the mocking it usually brings when people find out. Which, frankly, John doesn’t understand. Who wouldn’t want to sit in hot water for hours with a glass of scotch? It started as part of his rehabilitation for his shoulder, and he never gave it up. Nothing makes tense muscles relax quite like a long soak in scalding water. Bubble optional.

The tub at Baker Street is surely a miracle. Deep and claw-footed, a relic from when the house was owned by a wealthy Victorian spinster. The water easily covers John’s shoulders when he eases in, and he can stretch his legs out flat without his toes barely touching the other side.

The bathtub in his flat in the suburbs was shit; plastic molding and a faucet that dug into his back and so shallow that his knees stuck out above the water when he crammed himself in. Not worth it in the least. But in their flat, John can run the water and sit for hours, turning on the faucet to reheat when needed and lounging until his tumbler is empty and his fingers look like raisins.

Mrs. Hudson had once mentioned that she would like to update the bathroom—including John’s miracle tub—and John’s almost violent protests had reduced Sherlock to what John could only call giggles. That was before Sherlock jumped, before John’s mess of a marriage and Mary’s rather spectacular reemergence as an assassin and everything else that’s happened since then. Sherlock still pokes fun whenever John announces he’s going in for a soak.

Tonight John is tired and grumpy from a long day at the surgery, his muscles tense and soar from clenching them in annoyance all day. Sherlock merely grunted from the sofa when John announced he was going in. He poured some Glenlivet and piled two (actually four) of Mrs. Hudson’s lemon tarts on a plate and retreated to his fortress in the loo.

John’s been soaking and eating and drinking for almost an hour now. The swirls of bath oil glimmer on the surface of the hot water and the scent of basil and lemon rise on little puffs of steam into the air. John sighs and sinks a bit lower, head cradled on a pillow (“ _really, John? A pillow?”_ ). He takes another swig of his scotch, his arm hanging over the edge of the tub with the glass.

The door to the loo opens and John hears Sherlock pad into the bathroom. He has always had boundary issues when John is in the tub or showering, coming in to piss (disgusting), root around in the cabinets (annoying), or just because he needs a living head to talk at (not to, at, and John typically doesn’t mind this so long as Sherlock doesn’t expect any answers).

When he doesn’t immediately hear Sherlock lift the toilet lid or open a cabinet, he assumes the later and allows his mind to start drifting again. What he doesn’t expect is to feel a bony foot against his calf and the water to rock up to his chin as Sherlock steps into the oversized tub. John opens his eyes as Sherlock grunts and lowers himself into the water. He’s thankfully nude (with Sherlock, you never know), and John sees that his slender penis is flaccid as he sinks down. Not sex, then.

John watches, almost too blissed out and relaxed to be curious, as Sherlock settles deep into the water. His long legs stretch out until John feels his toes pushing between his back and the porcelain, his bony knees pressing into John’s thighs. He merely looks at John, a perplexed expression on his face.

John smirks, delighted by Sherlock’s face as he looks around, as if trying to figure out what John enjoys about this so much. He’s absolutely precious.

“This is dull, John,” Sherlock says finally, eyeing him suspiciously. “You just sit here?”

“Yup,” John nods. “Cheers.” He lifts his glass to Sherlock and takes a drink.

“It’s boring. And hot.” Little beads of sweat have broken out on Sherlock’s forehead. The hot water is turning his milk-white skin a delightful pink. John can see the bullet scar refracted under the water, reddening in the heat.

“That’s the point, sweet pea. Boring and hot and relaxing.”

“Surely the water gets dirty.”

“I rinse off, beforehand, Sherlock. You’re the one making the water dirty.”

“Hrmph.” Sherlock’s toes curl behind John’s back. He’s still sitting straight up, glancing around the bathroom as if he’s never seen it before. John’s not sure he has, from this angle. It’s adorable, but after a few moments, John takes pity on him. He appreciated the effort, but a bored Sherlock will most definitely impede on his John’s Bath Time.

“You don’t have to stay, you know. If you’re bored.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Is all Sherlock says, still looking around. John suppresses a laugh and takes another swig of scotch. After a few more moments, satisfied he’s examined the loo all he can from this newly occupied observation point, Sherlock relaxes back against the wall of the tub.

“Did you clean up the mess on the table?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” John sighs, but closes his eyes and leans his head back nonetheless. Sherlock places his large hands on John’s feet, his fingertips restlessly dancing against the soles. John can feel his eyes on him. “You don’t have to be quiet, you know. I can tell you want to talk.” He doesn’t open his eyes.

“I didn’t come in here to talk.”

“Yes, you did. Even if you don’t think you did. You can talk. I like it when you talk and you won’t be so bored.”

“I don’t have anything to talk about.”

“Now that is bullshit. I’m sure there’s something in there you can ramble about without needing me to answer.”

John’s eyes are still closed, but he can imagine the wrinkle in Sherlock’s nose as he scrunches his face. His long fingers start pulling at John’s toes.

“Natural England just released a new plastic hive for urban beekeeping.”

“Urban beekeeping?” John hums lazily.

“Yes, John. Beekeeping in London has become quite popular in the last decade, and has accumulated more interest since the increase in Colony Collapse Disorder in Europe and America.”

“Didn’t know you were interested in bees, love.” That’s not entirely true, John thinks to himself, remembering Sherlock’s _Apis_ mug (don’t even try giving him another if he happens to have a cold) and the bee pillow that’s been on the sofa since John first visited the flat.

“Obviously. They’re fascinating and entirely necessary to human food supply. Without honey bees, surely crops would die off and we’d all starve due.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” John mumbles and leans back further, his head buzzing with warmth and a bit of scotch and Sherlock’s deep baritone as he dives into an explanation of the importance of urban beekeeping. John knows he’s going to use this opportunity to try and convince John to let him keep bees, but John is so relaxed he can’t even care.

***

“Sher-Sh-Sherlock?!” John stumbles out into the street, coughing and hacking. His eyes burn. His lungs burn.   His hand burns where he pushed against the red hot door to make his way onto the street. “Sherlock?!” He doubles over, hands on his knees, as a cough wracks his body. John forces himself up, still hacking, and frantically squints through the alleyway. “SHERLOCK!”

The brick building is burning nicely in front of him, one of the second-floor windows bursting as flames lick out. “SHERLOCK?!?” John spins in place, trying to see through the haze of heat and smoke. “Sherlock?!” His heart is hammering, from more than just lack of oxygen. Every part of him hurts, and his eyes sting, but none of that matters, none of it, because Sherlock isn’t beside him.

“No…NO!” John’s face is wet; he doesn’t know if the tears are from the smoke or fear or maybe both. His ears are buzzing. “Sherlock!” He stumbles forward a bit, entire body shaking, then turns to his left. “Sherlock!”

“John?” John hears his name, just barely through the ringing in his ears. Behind him. “John!”

“Sher—” John is tackled from the side before he can turn around, long, wiry arms wrapping around his chest. They both stumble and fall, collapsing in a heap on the dirty gravel. It crunches and digs into John’s arse as Sherlock’s weight lands on him, but he doesn’t care. “Sher—fuck. Sherlock.” He grips Sherlock’s trembling shoulders and crushes him to his body.

“John,” Sherlock’s fingers pinch and rub at John’s back through his coat, trying to stifle his coughing and press closer.

“It’s all right,” John heaves, pushing his nose into Sherlock’s sooty hair, which brings on another round of coughing. “We’re all right. Fuck. God, fuck, Sherlock.”

“Jo-John, I thought…I couldn’t find…” Sherlock is overcome by another coughing fit, and John (reluctantly) pulls back so he can double over and hack, the tremors so strong Sherlock retches and vomits in the street, John curled over his back as he rubs his shoulder and struggles to take a deep breath himself. In the distance, he can hear the scream of sirens.

Sherlock gives one last retching cough, then backs away from the puddle and collapses to his side on the street, head resting on John’s thigh.

“Goddammit, Sherlock,” John leans over, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. His sooty face is streaked with tears. John knows his is as well. His lungs are still burning.

“Are-are you, al-all right, John?” Sherlock manages to get out, voice wavery and still coughing.

“Still in one piece, I think.”

“My chest hurts.”

“Smoke. I hear sirens, ambulance should be here soon. Just lay still.” John clutches Sherlock to him and tries to calm himself. _It’s all right. We’re all right. We’re fine…Sherlock is fine._ John rubs his hand up and down Sherlock’s side, and he flinches and jerks when John’s palm runs down his thigh.

“Shit, Sherlock, what happened to your thigh?” John can’t see Sherlock’s leg through the haze of the fire, or his hand, but it feels damp when he rubs his fingers together.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock clears his throat and coughs again. His heartrate appears to be slowing a bit, and while his neck is sweaty it doesn’t feel cold or clammy.

“Alright. The paramedics will sort it,” John clutches Sherlock’s waist. “Just lay still and try to take as deep of breaths as you can.”

But Sherlock doesn’t stay still, and manages to shakily push himself up on his hands. His eyes are wild and manic with lingering fear, his pupils pinpricks even in the dark of the street. “John, are you—”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” the sirens are getting closer. John lifts his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, squeezing reassuringly. “Bit ‘smoked,’ but…”

Sherlock huffs an (almost) laugh at the wording, and then leans his forehead against John’s and tries to take a deep breath.

“We’re all right,” John murmurs, rubbing at Sherlock’s soot-and-tear streaked cheekbone with his thumb. Of course all it does it smudge more black across Sherlock’s face. “Christ, we’re a mess.”

Sherlock swallows and closes his eyes, nodding his forehead against John’s as he tries to breathe through his nose. He snorts a bit and coughs again, turning his head slightly so their cheeks are pressed together. “My eyes are blurry.”

“Mine too, love,” John reaches inside Sherlock’s Belstaff and rubs his belly through his shirt. “They’ll have drops for us.”

“And oxygen, too, I hope,” Sherlock clears his throat again and shivers.

“Ohhhh, that too.” John kisses Sherlock’s forehead. “Oh, Christ. Jesus fuck, Sherlock. That was ridiculous. You’d have better have gotten that damn flash drive.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snorts and reaches a shaking hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulls out a small silver drive. “That’s why I wasn’t directly behind you. But then I couldn’t find you…” his voice trails off.

“Well, never again, you fucking idiot.” John squeezes around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Next time we’re in a burning building, you’re taking my hand and not letting go.”

“Alright,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s shoulder, surprisingly quite, as a fire truck makes a sharp turn down the road and screams towards them.

“There we are,” John takes a deep breath. “Come on, up.” His legs shake and he’s still quite out of breath as he drags them both to their feet while the fire truck squeals to a stop just in front of them. Sherlock’s leg gives out a bit, but he manages to catch himself and limps along as John leads him to the ambulance parked just behind the truck. Police cars have begun flying down the street as well. Paramedics jump out and swarm towards them, and John doesn’t allow them to pull his arms from around Sherlock’s waist as they head to the open back of the vehicle. Sherlock, thankfully, doesn’t seem ready to let go as well.

John has to loosen his grip a bit as they sit in the open box, as oxygen masks are being shoved on their faces and orange shock blankets are thrown over their shoulders. John releases Sherlock’s waist and takes his hand instead, squeezing when a stocky, middle-aged women starts slicing up Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock inhales sharply and jumps when she pries the wool off the burn on Sherlock’s thigh. It’s not large, smaller than John’s hand, but fairly nasty looking and weeping serosanguinous fluid through seared flesh. Sherlock might even need an overnight stay in hospital.

“John!” John turns towards his name and sees Greg striding towards them, Sally Donovan on his heels. John can’t help but laugh when he shakes his head in exasperation. “I thought I told you two to wait!” He chastises when he reaches the ambulance.

“I got the drive,” Sherlock snaps, hissing when the paramedic sprays something on his burn. He slumps against John’s side, and John only realizes their hands are still clasped tightly when Sally Donovan all but ogles it from where she’s standing. Greg barely pays it mind as he launches into a full-on scolding that John honestly doesn’t hear.

It hits him that while this isn’t the first time he’s wanted to cling to Sherlock after narrowly escaping death, this is the first time he’s ever actually done it. Despite is being truly terrifying, the fear of losing Sherlock _again_ , touching him afterward, their joint relief physically actualized, is quite marvelous.

***

Neither of them slept very well. John actually barely slept at all. Sherlock kept trying to roll on his side, only to jerk awake when his bandaged thigh hit the mattress.

They’d stumbled into the flat well after two in the morning, having spent several hours in the A&E, John trying to explain that he was a doctor, and knowing their blood ox saturations were both hovering at 98% meant there was little chance either of them had sustained significant lung injuries. In fact, aside from Sherlock’s rather gruesome burn, they were both relatively unscathed. Finally, after a call to Mycroft and the dispensing of some levofloxacin, the trauma attending had agreed to let them both go.

Sherlock insisted on a shower, and John agreed, knowing he didn’t want to wake up in a bed that smelled like a forest fire. It took a bit to wrap Sherlock’s leg in plastic bandages to keep it dry, and most of the shower was spent exhaustively leaning against the wall or each other, but around 3:30am they’d climbed into bed.

Sherlock huffed and whined when he realized he wouldn’t be able to sleep on his right side, until John had pointedly switched off the bedside lamp and said, “Sherlock. Go the fuck to sleep.” He actually did, snoring softly curled up against John’s chest, until he tried to turn in his sleep and jerked them both awake.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Sherlock had the benefit of lingering hydrocodone and another bit of co-comadol John allowed him when they got home; just enough to take the edge of and make him sleepy, if still incredibly irritated and put out. John’s nerves were still singing, despite his exhaustion, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins while Sherlock jerked and heaved beside him meant sleep was not to be found.

And it hit him, as the 6am sunlight started to peak through Sherlock’s perpetually open curtains, that things weren’t as unchanged as John thought they were.

They’d moved seamlessly into a romantic relationship (although Sherlock would surely sputter and grumble at that word), and everything had changed. Sherlock was still an irritating, eccentric, maddening arsehole, and John still bore the weight of his antics with the patience of a saint, but the easy nature of the changes didn’t mean they weren’t exactly that. Changes. They’d changed. Sherlock still sulked, but now he sulked in John’s lap. He took John’s hand or leaned against him when he was upset or afraid. Neither no longer needed an excuse when they missed the other and just wanted to be close; John could now simply go up behind Sherlock and touch him, or Sherlock could simply decide he wanted to join John in the bath, just to sit. And, most importantly, John could now express his relief and delight and unreleased grief when Sherlock a potentially harrowing situation. In the past, it was always a laugh and a huff and awkward relief while something very heavy hung in the air around them.

Last night, John had held Sherlock close, and Sherlock had held John close. And it’d been so easy, so simple, and so _perfect_.   It was a massive change. Their lives were entirely different now.

John had feared the easiness of their life would change when they’d become intimate, but he’d been willing take the risk. He’d only realized how hard it was to live the way they lived now that he was able to do or express whatever he wanted. It was absolutely glorious, finally being able to lie with Sherlock in his arms after they’d both nearly been killed.

That was quite a big change. A huge change. It was just so easy, so perfect, John hadn’t noticed until now. And it’s so wonderful, so perfect, after everything they’d been through, that it makes John’s breath catch in his chest. He thinks over the five years he didn’t have this, two of which he thought he’d never so much as see Sherlock or hear his voice again. So much has changed, he can barely believe it’s real.

God, nothing could ever be so perfect.

He watches Sherlock doze, sunlight slanting across his sharp features.   It must be close to noon; John can’t see the clock from where he’s lying. Sherlock’s nude skin is warm and slightly damp with sleep, mouth open slightly. He really should let him sleep, but when Sherlock shifts slightly he feels the beginnings of an erection press against his thigh.

John’s shoulders pull and ache as he leans forward and presses an open mouthed kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock snuffles and sighs, stirring when John brushes back his unruly curls, frizzy from drying without the copious amounts of product he usually uses. Sherlock is lovely like this, soft and warm and delightfully heavy in John’s arms.

John shuffles lower so he can kiss Sherlock’s sleep-swollen lips. He can feel Sherlock’s eyelashes against his cheek as he blinks and sniffs awake.

“Morning, beautiful,” John whispers against his mouth as Sherlock’s nose twitches and he hums.

“John.”

“How’s your leg, sweetheart?” John nibbles at Sherlock’s cheek. Really, he’s so gorgeous in the morning.

“Awful,” Sherlock’s voice is rough. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“More like waiting for you to wake up,” John shifts his thigh, and Sherlock hisses and jerks as it rubs against his swollen cock, now fully erect.

“Mmmmm…you kissed me to wake me up,” Sherlock grumbles, but pushes his hand between their warm bodies and fumbles around for John’s penis. Still fuzzy with sleep, it takes him a few tries. John exhales hard against Sherlock’s face when his fingers wrap around the hardening flesh and tug slightly.

“I was impatient…oh.”

“Obviously.” John’s cock plumps out rapidly now that it’s in Sherlock’s hand.

“Are you in too much pain to fool around?”

“Never.” Sherlock presses his lips against John’s prickly chin. “And you can say, ‘have sex,’ John. Honestly. We’re not teenagers.”

“Fine,” John sighs as Sherlock gently tugs on his foreskin. “But you’re a cock.”

“You love my cock.”

“I do,” John presses his thigh upwards, his knee gently pressing against Sherlock’s scrotum. He shifts his face and licks against Sherlock’s lips, catching his lower lip and sucking lightly. “How do you want it, baby? Ohhhh. Oh.”

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock releases John’s cock, awkwardly pushing himself over and flopping on his stomach. His right leg flails out, bent slightly, so the burn doesn’t press into the mattress. He grunts.

“God, you are so fucking lazy,” John gently slaps one of Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

“I’m injured,” Sherlock mumbles into the pillow.

“Yes, you are,” John chuckles, pushing himself up and leaning over Sherlock’s body to nip at the nape of his neck. “And I really should let you rest so as to not aggravate your wound, but you just look so soft and lovely.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John mouths down Sherlock’s shoulder blades, swirling his tongue around a cigarette burn scar, then brushing his lips down at dark line Sherlock told him was from a fish knife. He knows about each mark, each scar, and his heart always aches to see them. But it’s such a visceral, physical reminder of just how much Sherlock loves him that he has to worship them, has to true to infuse as much love in them as he can whenever he gets the another.

Another change. When Sherlock first explained the scars, after being shot, John had only be able to shake his head and clap his shoulder, trying to blink away the tears and shame he felt. Now, he can touch them and kiss them gently as much as he wants, to let his lips explain to Sherlock what they mean to him when his words fail him.

Sherlock shivers and moans as John works his way down the long, white expanse of his back, making sure his mouth touches every line and gauge imbedded in the soft skin. When he reaches the dip at the base of Sherlock’s spine, where there are no scars, John bites gently. Sherlock jerks and moans.

“This alright, sweetheart?” John licks Sherlock’s right buttock. The skin is warm and a bit salty.

“Nnnnggg....John…” Sherlock shifts and lifts his right thigh higher on the bed, exposing the smooth cleft of his arse and the tight pink pucker that resides there.

“Yes, thank you for that bit of effort,” John chuckles and reaches up to pull a pillow down, nudges Sherlock’s hips up so he can slide it under his belly. John lowers his head to nip and suck at Sherlock’s left buttock as he rubs his thumb up over the tight muscle, feeling it twitch just a bit.

“Mmmm, John…JOHN!” Sherlock jerks as John’s mouth moves to suck on the skin of his perineum. John has done this before, quite frequently actually, but Sherlock still reacts with surprise everytime.

“What, love?” John chuckles, licking a flat stripe up over the pink hole before settling his lips directly over it, sucking lightly. Sherlock tastes like soap and sweat and the musk of sleep and John’s cock throbs where it’s presses against the mattress.

“Nothing…just, oh. OH!” Sherlock arches off the bed as John’s tongue pokes, just a bit, then swirls around the soft, crinkled skin.

“Careful, darling,” John presses his hand gently to Sherlock’s thigh, his voice muffled by Sherlock’s arse. “You’re injured, remember?” He sucks again, purposefully making obscene slurping sounds.

“Oh, god, John, shut up and—”

“And what, Sherlock?” Before he can answer, the tip of John’s index finger replaced his tongue, pressing just slightly into his saliva-wet opening.

“Oh…and that,” Sherlock’s hips arch again.

“Mmmm, this, huh?” John pushes himself up a bit, and presses his finger in just a bit more. Sherlock’s body twitches and clenches, the velvety warmth of him seeming to try and pull John’s finger in further.

“More…”

“If you say so, sweetheart,” John chuckles and presses a final wet kiss against Sherlock’s arse cheek, then leans up and over to reach under the pillow. He gets the lube, then removes his finger from Sherlock’s body (which Sherlock does not seem happy about) to squeeze some lube out. He circles his now slick finger around his hole again, and pushes forward, this time sliding all the way in without preamble. Sherlock moans.

“Yes, that. More of that,” Sherlock’s hips rock against the pillow and mattress.

“Like this?” John teases, then twists his finger and angles down, pressing gently against the hard nub nestled amongst softer mucosa.

“Oh, FUCK!” Sherlock jerks violently, and John guffaws as he removes his finger and replaces it with two, scissoring slightly and angling directly for Sherlock’s prostate again.

“You’re so eloquent, with my fingers up your arse,” John rocks his hand, Sherlock’s moans and the slick sounds of John’s fingers slipping in and out of his anus creating a glorious symphony that seems to shoot straight to John’s already painfully swollen cock.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock rasps, pushing his arse back at John’s hand. “Shut up and fuck me, please.”

“You’re still a bit tight, sweetheart…”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock grunts and rises on his knees a bit, pushing his arse up in the air. His bullocks and cock are flushed red with blood, hanging heavily between his milky white thighs.

“Just one more,” John slides a third finger past the tight muscle, feels the twitch and squeeze of it when he presses against his prostate again. Sherlock’s cock dribbles out a bit of pre-come onto the pillow at the stimulation and John’s mouth waters. His cock throbs painfully.

“John!” Sherlock whines, pushing back again.

“Alright, alright, fuck…” John pulls his fingers out with a quiet *squelch* of lube and slick flesh, quickly grabbing the bottle and pouring more into his palm. He slicks himself and lines up, meaning to go slowly but the second his cock breaches Sherlock’s body, Sherlock rocks back with a moan and takes him fully. “Oh, shit…fuck. FUCK!” John inhales hard as his cock is surrounded by hot, tight flesh. The heat of Sherlock’s body is always a wonder to him, no matter how many times he’s done this.

“John,” Sherlock twitches and shakes beneath him, his body contracting around John’s as it fight the intrusion. He tries to rock back again, but John stills him.

“Shhhh…just relax love,” he strokes Sherlock’s flank, leaning over to press a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Don’t hurt your leg.”

“Please move, John,” Sherlock gasps. “Please.”

“Fuck, yes. Sherlock,” John pulls back and snaps his hips forward, watching with delight as he slides in and out of Sherlock’s hole, already red from the intrusion. John loves watching his dick slide in and out of Sherlock’s arse; it’s so lewd, and so fucking unbelievable that Sherlock Bloody Holmes has allowed him, _him_ , of all people, to put his cock in his arse.

Of course, John also knows that when he introduced Sherlock to sex, he released a monster (who is now cursing and writhing beneath him as his hips snap forward), but it’s still goddamn amazing.

“God, I love you,” John pants against Sherlock’s shoulder, rolling his hips. “You ridiculous, mad bastard. I love you, so much.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is heavy and rough, but he lets out a high-pitched squeak when John angles slightly and the head of his penis butts up against his prostate.

“You want me to touch you, sweetheart?” John groans, realizing that he may not be able to make this as slow and drawn-out as he originally planned. Sherlock’s body is tightening around his cock, then tension of a building release evident where John is buried inside him. John’s toes are starting to tingle, and so is the base of his spine. His balls are starting to ache.

“Yes, please. PLEASE!” Sherlock turns his forehead into the pillow, gasping as he reaches back to grab John’s thigh. John reaches around Sherlock’s abdomen and finds Sherlock’s cock, swollen and impossibly hot in his head. “Oh!” Sherlock gasps and arches as John’s thumb teases over his leaking slit.

“God, you feel so good…so good,” John times his stroking with his cock. Sherlock moans again and digs his fingers painfully into John’s thigh. “Let go for me sweetheart, let me feel this tight arse of yours squeeze around me as you come…”

“Oh, John…please, please, oh, OH!” John’s thumb presses against Sherlock’s wet glans and that does it; a gust of warm wetness coats John’s fingers as ripples of Sherlock’s body squeeze down John’s cock, milking his orgasm from his body.

It’s surprisingly strong, stronger than John was expecting, his balls tightening painfully as his cock twitches and floods Sherlock’s body again and again. John thrusts once more and feels Sherlock’s cock twitch and dribble out a bit more come in his hand, then they both collapse in a sweaty, shaking heap on the (frankly disgusting) sheets.

“Jesus fuck, Sherlock,” John gasps into Sherlock’s sweaty skin. “Oh, fuck.” Sherlock’s body is limp but still twitching and clenching around his now-painfully sensitive cock. He pushes up gently and reluctantly pulls out, watching as Sherlock’s hole continues to twitch and a bit of his come dribbles out and down his perineum. John feels a rather primitive stab of possessiveness as he presses another kiss to Sherlock’s back and moves up to flop down on the pillow next to him.

“Hey,” John says after a few moments of heavy, sated breathing.

Sherlock turns his face on the damp pillow. “Hey.” His face is flushed pink, his eyes heavy and soft in the afterglow of orgasm.

“You’re spectacular,” John chuckles, leaning forward to press his lips softly against Sherlock’s lips. “Brilliant. Quite extraordinary.”

“Mmmm…you’ve said that before,” Sherlock’s mouth twitches slightly upwards.

“I know,” John rubs his nose against Sherlock’s. “And I’m going to keep saying it. Forever.” He rests his hand on Sherlock’s flank, thumb stroking the hot skin. “How’s your leg?”

“Awful,” Sherlock’s eyes close. “Unbearable. Now that we aren’t copulating, I can focus on nothing else.”

“You’re a dick,” John smirks and leans forward, kissing his lips again. “If I get you another co-comadol, can we sleep a little more?”

“If I sleep a little more, will you fuck me again when we wake up?”

“If that’s what it takes, I’m sure I can try and make an effort,” John rolls his eyes, pushes himself up to go get a flannel and some co-comadol. Sherlock remains flopped across the mattress, making no effort to move in the least. “You’re a lazy little shit.” He lightly slaps Sherlock’s arse and he grunts.

Well, some things haven’t really changed. John doesn’t care if they ever do.

**Author's Note:**

> There's always a fire. Because, something about priorities or something. I dunno, it's from some show or whatever.


End file.
